


coefficient of dynamic friction

by engmaresh



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Anal Sex, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Rare Pairings, sex under the influence of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/pseuds/engmaresh
Summary: Later they’re going to blame it on the alcohol.Varrick is king of bad decisions, but Baatar is an apt pupil.
Relationships: Baatar Jr./Varrick (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	coefficient of dynamic friction

**Author's Note:**

> For courtpainterofearthempire over at tumblr.

Later they’re going to blame it on the alcohol. Or Varrick’s going to, anyway, even if he hardly needs booze to make ill-advised decisions. Besides, considering that Kuvira had personally filled their cups several times before she’d gone off on her own thing, this is going to be a union sanctioned by their fearless leader herself. The thought makes him laugh out loud, and Baatar looks up.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Oh, nothing,” he tells the kid, waving his hand. The boy can be jumpy, always far too worried about what others think of him, of what they say behind his back. Varrick can understand that a little, though he’s never been in the same position himself; rich family with a _reputation_ , oldest child, only non-bender at this point too. Not a hard life, not at all, but a complicated one. And so Baatar thinks too much. No worries. Where they’re headed now, no thinking will be required.

“You ready?” he asks, slowly stroking his cock. He’s been hard for the past ten minutes, but Baatar is still opening himself up, brow furrowed in concentration, like his ass is some particularly complex piece of machinery. “Need a hand there?”

“No!”

“Alright, alright,” Varrick says, raising his hands. Touchy. Heh, literally. He chuckles to himself, and reaches down to take another swig of his chrysanthemum wine. It’s not very potent as wines go, but it helps maintain that steady buzz, the kind he generally prefers to accompany all his irreversibly bad decisions.

The kind that he doesn’t actually regret in the morning, beyond that it adds to the list of people who want to kill him. And Su is definitely going to want to kill him when she finds out he’s fucking her eldest.

He takes another sip of wine.

“We should probably stop drinking.” _Finally_ , Baatar seems to be ready. He plucks the cup from Varrick’s hand, and sets it aside, out of reach. 

“A bit too late for that, isn’t it, kiddo?” The term of endearment makes the younger man frown, but he doesn’t protest it, stepping over Varrick’s long gangly legs in preparation to straddle him. “But we can stop anytime you want.”

“I don’t want to stop,” Baatar mutters stubbornly. He leans down, bracing his hands on the back of Varrick’s chair. Ah, a romantic at heart. Not that Varrick ever minds kissing, not with the mouth on that boy, but he’s eager to get to the main event. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs under the onslaught of lips and tongue. Reaching around, he grabs himself two handfuls of that firm ass. Spirits, Kuvira’s done a good job on him, whipping the softest Beifong into shape, but credit also has to go to Ba Sing Se’s officers. He remembers those rows and rows of young men and women doing push-ups in the square, peasants and nobles alike, all conscripted to serve the nation in its time of greatest need. If he hadn’t been Water Tribe he’d have been pressed into service himself. But his brain works better without brawn getting in the way, so he’d been free to remain in his workshop, venturing forth for the occasional ogle.

“I thought old people were supposed to be patient.”

The cheek. He gives Baatar’s ass a light smack, grinning when it makes him jump. “Not that old, and don’t make it weird.”

Baatar rolls his eyes. “It’s already weird, it’s you.” Not that it seems to give him any pause. Slowly, arms braced on Varrick’s shoulders, he lowers himself down onto Varrick’s aching cock. Varrick tries his best to help where he can, keeping his hands firmly on his ass, but really, strength isn’t his department. There’s a reason Baatar does squats, and not him.

In the end, all that preparation pays off. Baatar’s hot, tight, and takes Varrick to the hilt in one slow yet steady movement. “Oh fuuuck,” Varrick finds himself exhaling, dragging his hands up the small of Baatar’s back. All that height and muscle, heavy in his lap, breathing harshly into Varrick’s neck as he adjusts to the feel of Varrick in him.

“You good?” he pants, resisting the urge to thrust upwards.

“Fine, fine,” Baatar huffs, but Varrick decides to give him a few more seconds. He smooths his hands up that broad back, noting the raised bump of a still-healing scar along Baatar’s side, the small nicks and bruises across his shoulders. As a scientist, Baatar doesn’t have to go out and fight, but he’s still young enough to want to prove himself, and apparently for the youth these days, that involves going forth to get beaten up and shot at by bandits and anarchists.

Varrick’s smarter than that. The two brain cells he has left, he’s not about to waste them dodging projectiles and trying not to die.

“‘m ready now,” he hears Baatar say. Muscles flex as he raises himself, and Varrick plants his feet, pushing up to meet him halfway. Baatar’s cock bobs between them as he moves and Varrick...Varrick should probably take care of that. Can’t just leave the kid to do all the heavy lifting.

At least Baatar had the foresight to bring with him the bottle of mineral oil—useful stuff, they’d used engine grease once and the mess had been a _nightmare_. He pours some out onto his hand, enjoying the pitched moan that escapes the younger man as Varrick’s nimble, calloused fingers close over his cock.

“Hnngh, _yes_.” The chair squeaks precariously under them. Baatar’s legs are beginning to shake, so Varrick wraps one arm around his back and picks up the pace as much as he can for his lack of leverage. He’s close now, and Baatar is too, judging from the way his panting gets shorter and shorter, like a steam engine picking up speed. 

Engine, heh. A well oiled machine. He’ll tease the boy about that later.

Then Varrick comes, the world whiting out for a second or so, pleasure rushing through him like there’s a live wire connected from his cock to his brain. It’s all happening a little sooner than he’d hoped, but that’s not his fault, he’s been holding out for a while now, and he’d _told_ Baatar to hurry up. 

He blinks back to awareness when Baatar grunts in his ear, and it looks like he’s taken over from where Varrick’s hand has fallen away from his cock, and _nonono_ , this isn’t how it goes. “Up,” orders Varrick, grateful for all that training drilled into the boy’s head, because up Baatar goes, hissing as they part. Standing, he’s exactly the right height for Varrick to take his cock in his mouth. He’s just as hot in Varrick as he is around him, the taste of skin and salt subsumed under the clean nothing taste of mineral oil, for all that he associates it with sex.

He reaches around, presses two fingers into Baatar’s loose entrance, curls them as he nudges his head close enough that his nose brushes Baatar’s coarse pubes. Hands scrabble through Varrick’s hair, snagging in the strands, tugging a little just shy of uncomfortable. He twists his fingers, seeking that one spot, and _yes_ there it is, because a long groan is the only warning Varrick gets before Baatar comes, bent almost double over Varrick’s head, blunt nails digging into his scalp.

Varrick holds briefly him through the aftershocks, petting his ass and thighs until the worst of the shaking fades and the taste of come in his mouth gets a little too much. Stepping away, Baatar sits down heavily on the floor, leaving Varrick enough room to lurch to his feet. Far enough to spit into the cup of wine, and to grab the half-full, unsullied bottle before he collapses back into his chair. He takes a swig, then offers some to Baatar by tapping the bottle lightly against his cheek.

“Rehydrate.”

“With wine?” But the younger man rouses himself briefly, takes a sip, then settles back with his head against Varricks chest.

“Look who you’re calling old,” Varrick teases. But he scrubs a fond hand through Baatar’s hair, teasing out the little that’s left smoothed back. “Don’t fall asleep on me here, kid.” 

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

Look who’s back. Grumpy. Indignant. Tomorrow they’ll be at each other’s throats again.

Baatar climbs slowly to his feet, then holds out a hand for Varrick. Varrick takes it and the opportunity to sneak in another grope. He gets his hand swatted away for his trouble, but Baatar doesn’t look too displeased.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Baatar,” Varrick says, before he can start picking up after the mess they’ve left. “I’ll take care of this.”

There’s a small smile, almost hidden, at Varrick’s use of his name. Varrick pretends not to notice. They work better this way.


End file.
